Doctor Blake Mysteries Drabbles
by bugsfic
Summary: A collection of very short stand-alone fics for Doctor Blake Mysteries. Varied ratings but nothing explicit. Mostly Jean/Lucien pairing with a sprinkling of Alice Harvey and Alice/Matthew pairing. Spoilers through the telemovie of season five.
1. Pearls

Pearls start as humble grains of sand.

Sitting before her dressing table, Jean stroked the dark strand of Tahitian pearls she wore.

Lucien had surprised her with the necklace as a Christmas in July present. "When I saw them in the shop window, I thought they'd look lovely against your skin," he'd husked as he'd fastened it around her neck. "And they do."

She shouldn't wear it in public, but she found herself wearing it near daily, to the shops, ignoring curious comments at church, even to a boxing match. It was the sort of piece that a doctor's wife wore. She was transforming from an ordinary housekeeper.

For their tenth anniversary, Christopher had given her an obligatory strand of cultured white pearls with a peck on the cheek. He'd whispered, there'll be something more for you later, as though his half-hearted caresses were to be looked forward to now that the blush of first love was gone.

She rose and put a satin dressing gown over her new sheer nightdress. Padding downstairs, she stood before Lucien's door and fingered the pearls again. Finally, she knocked. She heard his nearing footfall, and her nervousness disappeared when she saw his shocked expression.

"Jean?"

"You didn't kiss me goodnight."

Tension in the air all evening. A sort of anger, unspoken fury knotting low in her belly, gazes locking before turning away. She hadn't been surprised when he suddenly fled the lounge with barely a goodnight tossed over his shoulder.

"Sorry." He didn't move.

She put her hand on his chest. Only then did his mouth seek hers. The heel of her palm pressed into his sternum, breaking their lips' seal and pushing him into his room. "I never gave you your gift."

From pain comes beauty; a jewel forms around an irritant.


	2. Call Me

The phone rang just as Alice opened the chest on the corpse. Lucien popped up from the microscope. He looked at the phone but didn't move. It rang on.

"Hands full," Alice said, answering the unspoken request. She eased the heart loose from the bloody cavity.

With a dramatic sigh, Lucien headed to the phone, his expression sulky. Alice ignored this. He needed to grasp that she was his colleague, not underling.

"Ballarat Hospital Morgue," he said. His mood visibly changed. "Hello there," he said. "Yes, the number works," he added, delighted. "I had never noticed the phone."

Alice rolled her eyes and and slid the lungs loose.

Lucien glanced her way. "Dr Harvey is obviously observant." With his face radiating pleasure, he was rather handsome, she noted dispassionately.

Alice checked for a wedding ring. None; must be a girlfriend. She'd heard no romantic gossip about him, but nurses weren't comfortable being chummy, and the male doctors, despite being gossipy as fishwives, hadn't spilled much beyond malice warnings of Blake's unpredictability, moodiness and drinking.

"Oh, right, I can do that." Lucien pulled over a notepad. "Walkers' Grocery, before they close." His tone was all businesslike. A wife then.

"Diced, not crushed.. Does it matter? Tomatoes are tomatoes." Her reply was short, but he winced. "Diced," he noted down carefully.

He peered at the body. "I should be home around six." Another smile. "I promise...to try." A pause. "Bye," he said softly.

When he hung up, Alice said, "We'll be done." She wanted to build comradery with him. "Can't have your wife put out."

"Jean's not my wife," he said, his face blank. "She's my housekeeper."

The liver was cold in Alice's hands. "I see." Failed at friendship again. She'd need to avoid the topic and this 'housekeeper' going forward.


	3. Date Night

Dinner was delivered by Jacques, chef at Ma Maison, the new French bistro which was also the scene of the latest murder. Let it never be said that Lucien couldn't multitask.

"If I can't take my girl on a date, I'll bring the date to my girl," he told Jean.

With his divorce not finalized for months, they were either publicly engaged and she lived apart, or this - and Lucien couldn't face Mrs Toohey again.

Charlie was working, Edith Piaf on the hi-fi, lights low... Her head on his shoulder as they swayed together, calling it dancing.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, "that it has to be this way."

"This is wonderful." Her fingertips stroked his tie. He felt her smile against his neck. "Christopher and I didn't... I was still at school and he was a farmhand. We went to the milk bar every Saturday. Had a malt, perhaps some cake. We married the weekend after I left school. There aren't any dates when you have two little ones at home and the feed bill coming in."

"I suppose not." He started to make slow circles on her back with his palm. He could feel the heat through her blouse and cardigan. She'd protested that she should change but he loved her just this way- Jean Beazley didn't need to dress up for him.

Except one thing.

"Wear your ring just for tonight?"

She snagged the long chain that kept her engagement ring nestled between her breasts and put it on. A kiss... another... dancing forgotten-

The front door clanged open and shut. "Hullo!" Charlie called out.

They leapt apart but Charlie hurried upstairs, his face averted.

"May I see you to your door?" Lucien asked and Jean nodded. But it was his bedroom door where she was kissed goodnight.


	4. Secrets of the Boudoir

"Tell me a secret."

"What sort?"

"You have more than one?"

"That surprises you?" Dangerous tone which he utterly disregarded.

"I didn't expect you to have secrets... Beyond your secret to buttery scones."

Her glare was so cold that his scrotum retracted into his body like taking an icy plunge. The sheet flipped back; she stood naked and glorious. She yanked her dressing gown on.

"Darling, what I meant was-"

Her eyebrows rose before she turned away. Out the door, and her footfall faded off, not upstairs, but across the house. He was learning and stayed behind. Let her cool off like the sheets.

After an appropriate time, he sought and found her curled on the couch before the studio fireplace, The embers glowed deep red. He sat, leaving room between them. He _was_ learning.

"Why?" she asked and he hated the crack in her voice.

"I want to be the best man for you, Jean. Who can say that he knows your very heart; you shouldn't have to tell me something."

She crawled into his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck. She was warm and soft and he buried his face under her chin.

"I do have a secret," she whispered.

His hand slipped inside her gown. "What is it?" he asked, distracted.

"I have a lover."

Again, he almost laughed. Then he glanced up and saw her expression.

Her eyes sparkled with glee. Jean Beazley, former farmer's wife, doctor's housekeeper, had a _lover_. Not her chap, not a fiance, not a husband, but a secret lover.

He kissed her, living his role with an enveloping passion. The salt on his skin under her tongue, the weight of his arousal in her palm, the scent of his heat when she breathed; all her deepest, more glorious secrets.


	5. Sinful

"I'll stop in here, Lucien." Jean was checking the confessional schedule hung outside the cathedral.

"Another church? We've toured three already." His lips near her ear. "There's a lovely glade in that park across the street. Let's stroll over, find some privacy-"

She gave that secret half-smile of a woman who knew she was desired. Then her mouth formed a hard line. "I want to go alone."

Under her hand, his forearm tensed before he moved away. "Right. I saw a shop that I'll pop in."

They'd passed a liquor store, and his gaze had lingered on a display of Scotch whiskys.

"I won't be long," she promised.

It was dark and cool inside. No one waited on the pew outside the confessional booth. She entered. On the other side, a throat rumbled; an old man sound, filled with smoky phlegm. Then the window slid open.

She cleared her own suddenly dry throat. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been..." She thought. "A year since my last confession."

"Yes?"

Confess: large warm hands sliding across her bare skin; beard's burn along her collarbone; lips closing over a peak-

She coughed, then said, "I covet my neighbor's jam recipe."


	6. Smooth as a Baby's Bottom

Jean blamed the two glasses of after-dinner sherry. Her words hung in the air.

A set of sad blue eyes blinked. "You don't like my beard?"

"No, darling, that's not what I meant." Curled on his lap, she draped her arms around his neck and examined his face critically. "I'm just curious what you look like naked."

She blamed that on the two sherries too. Lucien's gaze shifted in his bedroom's direction.

"I mean," she stammered, "what you look like under there." That sounded better. She blinked like an owl.

He grinned and she traced his dimple until it disappeared in the coarse grey hairs before stroking his mouth with her fingertip. He glanced to the hall again. Charlie was on a stakeout tonight. "I've got pictures of me without the beard in my bedroom-"

"That doesn't count. You were a student-" She licked her lips. "Now you're a grown man-"

"Right, let me shave this moment."

As usual with Lucien, once something was in his mind, there was no stopping him. He rushed upstairs, leaving her panting on the settee, pushing her skirt back down and shaking her head. The sound of the tap running, banging of the medicine cabinet, a few loud curses... He returned and she couldn't contain her gasp.

He stood shyly with his hands clasped at his waist. She put a hand to his bare cheek, feeling as though he were exposed in some way. The skin was pale, giving a reverse shadow on his face.

"Very nice," she said.

He grinned wide. The dimple was back. "It'll be better than nice when I'm done," he promised, sweeping her off her feet and flat on the sette, his fingers nimbly picking loose her blouse buttons. "Let's take this baby's bottom face out for a run."


	7. Awakening

When did he first feel this way? Not desire but that first realization that he was in love. Desire had come first, he was ashamed to say, and that had been easier to dismiss. A crying woman, her soft body pressed into his; a biological response.

"The night before you left," he said aloud.

She was nearly asleep, nestled under his arm, his warmth buffering against the cool ocean breeze, and comfortable pillowed on his chest. A lazy afternoon at the beach to kiss and cuddle, but he wanted to talk? "Hmm?" she managed.

But he only smiled and kissed her as a reply.

While gulping whisky for courage, she'd told him that she would leave in the morning. After she went to bed, he'd poured his own. And another, then another, until it didn't burn his throat anymore.

He'd heard the thump of the sunroom door. Alert, he'd crept through the kitchen, ready to defend his house. The sunroom was empty but the door to the garden stood ajar. A pale figure moved along the garden's edge. He followed.

"Jean."

Moonlight caught the arch of her neck, her glowing fingers lightly touching blooms.

"Just saying goodbye," she'd murmured, her face still turned away from him. She must not show him the tears.

And that was it. He loved her, romantically, painfully, gloriously, impossibly.

"I'll leave you to it then," he had said, ever the coward, and retreated. The sunroom was warm from the day and he watched her through the glass as she flitted around like a shell-pink moth. The sweat in the small of his back reminded him of that desire, and it melded with this newfound love into a great weight on his heart.

"That night," he murmured against her cheek and she smiled up at him.


	8. The Man of the House

"Doctor Blake."

"Mrs Beazley." He lowered the newspaper that he'd sheltered behind when he'd heard this efficient force clattering down the stairs to the lounge.

"Perhaps you're not accustomed to living with a woman..." Discomfort, curiosity and interest warred on her lively features.

He didn't respond.

She squared her shoulders. "The seat will go down afterward."

"Seat?"

"Toilet." Her face flushed red. "Nurse O'Brien moves in Tuesday and things must be ship-shape, after all."

He felt not shame but exhilaration. It had been a very long time since he'd been the bumbling male in a feminine household. This first week alone with Jean Beazley had brought it all back in a rush, and yes, it seemed to be centered in the bathroom. A pink bar of soap in the holder, the smell of roses in the moist air- did she expel petals when she used the toilet?

He rose out of his chair. "Stockings, Mrs Beazley."

"Excuse me?"

"Hanging over the tub."

She narrowed her eyes, then those trim shoulders shimmied. "Yes. Right. I'll set up a drying rack in the laundry room."

He nodded benevolently. He was the man of the house now, in all senses of the word.


	9. Girlie

"That gentleman is being fresh," Jean whispered to the other waitress.

Annie glanced across the Colonists' Club dining room. "Oh, that one. He's all hands."

Knowing they were talking about him, the man smirked, flashing his dimples. Jean turned her back.

To save for next term's school clothes, she would take shifts when there were parties on, but it was more work than she'd expected. Not the labor, but dodging the Ballarat's toffs, who seemed to think that these rough-edged farmgirls welcomed their attentions.

"I'll go clean up tables on the balcony." She hurried from the dining room.

He followed. When he leaned against the doorjamb and lit a cigarette, she was trapped.

She asked, "Can I help you, sir?" but started to pick up glasses, avoiding his gaze.

He flashed her a grin and smoothed his glistening golden hair. "I think that I can help you, girlie."

"I don't need anything." She stepped forward with her tray.

He didn't move. "Toll is a kiss," he insisted.

She raised her chin. "Sir-"

"Leave her alone, Patrick," came from the shadows. Jean jumped, nearly dropping the glassware. Another man stepped into the light, also blond and in evening dress. He flicked his cigarette over the railing and folded his arms.

"Pushing in, Lucien?"

"Where's your lovely bride Susan?"

Sneering as a reply, Patrick turned on his heel.

Lucien must be Doctor Blake's son, Jean thought, who came down from Melbourne on his university holidays.

"Thank you," she said uncertainly. Did he want to push in? Would that be a bother? His eyes warmed and she gripped the tray tighter.

"Lucien!" A redhead at the doorway, sounding cross.

"Coming, Monica," he said, quirking a smile as he brushed past Jean.

She cleared the last table. She was just the waitress, after all.


	10. The Gift

First he saw roof tiles, like brown winter leaves scattered wide, protecting the rubble which had once been their home. He started to shift the mess frantically, as though he would find the housekeeper, or Li's nanny, or even Mei Lin and Li under there. But they'd be all gone, wouldn't they?

Still weak from his captivity, he sat. The wide lawns and tall shade trees of their garden were black now. The fish pond was brown sludge. The protective outer walls were just a few bricks high.

He stood and faced the entrance to the lovely house, then clamored over the debris. Underneath, the wide central corridor, cool and dark with fans whirling high above. His office had been here, at the east corner so he could work into the evening without the beating sun. There he dug.

Looters had long since carried off his glass-fronted bookcases and mahogany desk. The woven silk rug was gone. But they hadn't found the compartment under the floorboards. The aluminum box, stained with water and age but the contents were dry. The family photos. He could feel nothing when he looked at them. Perhaps later, when he had his beloveds in his arms again, then he could cry.

At the bottom, a jeweler's faded box. The jade brooch.

He'd bought this pretty thing on a whim; to make his wife smile when he'd present it for no reason except that he adored her. But when he found her in the garden, Derek was there first, and she'd rushed to show him the pearl-studded babble that his best friend had bought, also on a whim. Hed' laughed and put his gift away for another time.

He'd send it home to Ballarat with the other mementos. His wife would wear it with pride someday.


	11. The Thrill of It All

After all, Doris Day wore them and she was utterly wholesome. But Jean could still hear Mother saying that only fast girls wore trousers.

She tugged up a pair but got stuck on her girdle. She felt uncertain removing it, but the light woollen slacks looked much better this way. She smoothed hands down her thighs nervously and turned before the changing room mirror. It wouldn't matter. She'd only wear them around the house. They'd be simply more comfortable than doing housework in a skirt, stockings and foundation garments.

She nodded reassuringly at her worried face in the mirror.

"I've set up accounts at La Belle Salon, Myer's-" Lucien had cleared his throat. "Bernadette's Intimates..."

Her face went red, her limbs cold, furious and uncertain. Over the next few days, it took cuddling and cajoling, smoothing her pride, even graceful pleading that she humor his need to provide everything that she deserved.

In the end, her pride won- pride in the Blake name. Dr Blake's wife wouldn't have a home permanent wave, apply Woolworth's lipstick, or wear handmade clothes.

While waiting for her new hairdo to set under the dryer, Jean flipped through a Women's Weekly magazine, and saw the picture of Doris Day in lovely yellow slacks. Despite trepidation, her heart was set.

Still, it took courage to enter Lucien's office in her new plaid trousers. He turned to greet her, and instantly noticed. He blinked, his mouth dropped open, then formed a slow smile.

"Hello there." Arms held out wide, he leaned against the desk.

She approached. Tried to be cool. "Hello yourself."

Big hands cradling her hips, fingertips stroking her flanks, the heat of his touch through the fine fabric. She felt near naked. He grinned with approval.

She was fast, and didn't mind in the least.


	12. Lodged

Jean's knitting needles clicked together angrily. Lucien peeked behind Matthew, meeting her gaze beseechingly. He only got her raised eyebrows as a tart reply.

He'd offered Mattie's old room to Matthew, thinking it would be for a few short days.

It had been two weeks. No more kiss and cuddle in the lounge after dinner. No more pressing Jean against the kitchen worktop, tea towel wrapped around her waist, burying his nose in her hair. No more greeting at the door with her arms draped around his neck.

Because within moments, there would be the thump of Matthew's cane to make them leap apart.

Frustration wedged in their hearts, just like Matthew was that evening, taking the spot between them on the settee. After all, there were game shows on TV every night.

"How are you settling back into the force?" Jean said suddenly.

"It's going alright," Matthew muttered, focused on his show's final death round.

Her mouth became a thin line. Before she started to say more, Lucien shook his head. He understood her irritation, but he couldn't toss Matthew out. He'd found his home; how could he deny his friend that same thing?

Jean rose. "I'll go to bed." Sweeping from the room, she left Lucien without even a peck on the cheek goodnight.

But the next evening, she was cheerful, hips swinging as she hurried to the ringing doorbell.

Alice Harvey had arrived. Jean smartly moved her into the lounge, sat her by Matthew, and suggested they discuss the newest corpse. This delightful topic unbent the shy couple. Lucien started to join in, but Jean dragged him into the sunroom with her.

"What are you doing?" he hissed.

"Dislodging a stone from my shoe," she said, pushing him down onto the seat and curling on his lap.


	13. Meant to Be

Jean looked unenthused. "I'll go to support Shirley. It's an awful fright for her to watch Ray punched."

I'll be the fight doctor," Lucien pointed out.

"Will you know when to stop it?" she asked.

He harrumphed. "I boxed in school."

Her raised eyebrows caused him to fetch proof, producing several photographs of a teenager in singlet and satin underpants. She was shocked that he'd had wild curls, not his short-cropped hair. Did she really know her fiance?

Young Lucien held a boxing stance with upraised gloves which made her smile. His serious scowl caused her to grin. Another photo had medals around his neck and his trim arms crossed under wide shoulders. He'd been such a handsome boy. He wouldn't have looked twice at a farm girl, she decided. Occasionally her mind flitted to 'what ifs' but this wasn't something that would ever have been. She shared the first thought, "You were so lovely," but not the other.

His ears' tips went pink. "What about yours? We should start a family album."

Her steps dragged as she fetched her box of photos.

He looked at a formal school portrait, and his breath caught. Masses of curls tied with a ribbon, large innocent eyes-that flare of curiosity in her gaze. Innocence had been replaced by hurt reserve but the curiosity was still there. Her soft mouth gave him a flash of desire.

Dirty old man, he thought and startled Jean by giving her a kiss. "There's more?"

She reluctantly showed another. She was still a schoolgirl's age, but in a wedding dress.

She was a beautiful bride but he couldn't stop from saying, "You didn't see much of the world, did you?"

Her mood suddenly lifted; she kissed him back. "Sometimes we end up exactly where we're meant to be."


	14. Past and Future

"I don't need a ring, Lucien," Jean said as they entered a Melbourne jewellery shop. "I'm not some blushing bride-"

"Perhaps you don't need one, but would you want one?"

She repeated, "I'm too old for this-" as she gazed into the cases.

The salesman oiled up to them. "Something for the lady? Or perhaps a watch for the gentleman?"

"An engagement ring, as a matter of fact," Lucien said jovially.

With the salesman's astonishment, both lost their good humour. When he recovered, he showed them a few simple, dull rings.

And that was how Jean ended up with an awfully expensive emerald surrounded by flawless diamonds. Over tea, she turned her hand to and fro to admire the fire in the green stone. "I'll enjoy it for now. I shan't wear it in Ballarat."

He caught her fingers to kiss them...and then paused, his lips hovering. He'd obviously recalled something.

"Jean, I'm so sorry! I didn't remember your first ring."

"But then you'd have to confess to stealing it," she teased.

"Borrowed," he corrected. He rose. "We'll take the ring back and get another."

"No." She pulled him down. "If you don't mind, I'll keep it. That ring meant alot to me. This ring will be just as cherished."

Christopher's engagement ring had been made with his mother's heirloom stones and her uncle's gift of gold nuggets. They'd both been silly children to want something so flashy. In the end, she rarely wore it with her rough work as a farmer's wife. But it had symbolized their future dreams.

She went to a hair appointment, and when she joined Lucien at the hotel bar, he presented another jeweller's case, this one holding a dark pearl necklace. "For our future life," she told him, after giving a token protest.


	15. Blessing

The doctors Blake and Harvey were to inventory the supplies in the morgue, a tedious, dreary task. As usual, Lucien arrived late, but instead of his typical subversion when facing unpleasantness, he gave Alice a cheery greeting, hung up his jacket and clapped his hands. "Ready!"

But soon enough, he was twirling his pen and staring off into the distance with a little smile on his face.

She gave him a few minutes, but when she had to repeat: "Six boxes, size two scalpels," she asked, "Lucien, what in the world is wrong with you?"

His grin widened. "Not a bloody thing." He began to doodle on the notepad.

She snatched the clipboard from under his pen, meaning to take over, but saw that he'd been scribbling _Jean Blake_ and _Dr and Mrs Blake_ in the margins. She raised her eyebrows.

"Jean has consented to be my wife," Lucien said smugly.

"I see." Alice put the list down and turned back to her task. "Four boxes of gloves-"

He wasn't writing. She frowned.

"Aren't you happy for us?" he asked stiffly.

Puzzled, Alice said, "Of course," and started counting kidney basins.

"It's just...you don't seem pleased."

"It's not my marriage. I would assume that it is you who should be pleased."

"Well, yes," he admitted.

Then Lucien brooded for a few minutes. "You think Jean is making a mistake?" he accused Alice.

She blinked. "No. I have complete confidence in Jean. She knows you better than anyone, even yourself. If she accepted your proposal, it's you, warts and all, that she wants. She loves you unconditionally." Exhausted by this outburst, Alice returned to counting microscope slides.

"Thank you, Alice," he murmured as he squeezed her shoulder, truly touched. If this unromantic soul gave her blessing, it must be right.


	16. Visiting Hours

"Mrs Beazley, let's get you some tea. It won't do the doctor any good for you to faint from hunger." The clucking sister herded a weary Jean toward the hospital cafeteria.

Flattened against the wall, Alice watched them pass before slinking to the back stairs leading to Lucien's room. A hearty tea would give Alice plenty of time to get answers from Lucien...she'd waited long enough.

Someone else was on the stairs, making painful progress with a stick. Matthew Lawson. She slowed, giving him time. He glanced over his shoulder and glowered.

"No rush," she said.

He harrumphed and picked up his pace. She sighed. Men.

She took the opportunity to assess his gait, and at the top of the stairs, firmly grasped his flank. He needed more flexion in his hip or he'd create a stress injury-

"Oi!" he roared, "hands off!"

"This muscle is tightening," she said, ignoring his protests. "You must stretch—"

He shuffled out of her touch. "Lucien is helping me. You're not my doctor."

She'd heard that rejection plenty of times before. Men demanding a 'real' doctor, assuming that she was promiscuous because she'd seen unclothed males, or simply stating that no woman doctor would ever touch them.

"I'm a practicing physician," she pointed out. "I've attended to living patients."

He elaborated: "I don't want to be _your_ patient." But he didn't sound like those other men. He was focused on her mouth for one thing and his voice was more pleading than indignant.

"Oh. Yes."

"Good." He regained his balance. "You going to see Lucien?"

Right, Jean was not at Lucien's bedside. "Yes."

"Let's get the gory details from him." Matthew turned briskly. "Bloody fool really cocked it up this time."

The frisson gone, she followed, a wide grin on her face. "Let's."


	17. In Her Bed

_Set post 5.7_

* * *

He hogged her bed. Irritated, Alice shifted, trying to get her half out of the middle, but his foot pushed back. She sighed dramatically.

She'd felt sorry for him. Those sad eyes, his limp... She'd half-heartedly suggested that he'd be more comfortable in his own bed, but he was between her bedcovers. He was too warm, moved too much, kept breathing heavily in her ear. She needed to speak up now—

"I think you should go."

He licked her ear. Buttering her up—

She rolled over and glared at him reproachfully. "Bad boy, Lawson."

He thumped his tail in reply.


	18. The Application

Alice had just congratulated herself on how well she was interacting during the Christmas party when suddenly, with a thunder clap, she had no small talk left and no desire for company.

After a quick excuse of needing air, she wandered to the garden, her mind emptied of bright chatter, leaving it level as the lake on a still morning. Only to have her her peace invaded by a drift of cigarette smoke. It was Matthew.

"I didn't know you smoked."

"I don't. Just the occasional puff." He looked down at the offending object between his fingers as though wondering how it got there.

She went back to examining the flowers.

"You live in the Sutcliffe Apartments?" he asked, ignoring her distance.

"Yes."

"Close to the station," he mused. "Time I was moving along."

"Surely Lucien and Jean haven't asked you to leave."

"No, but once they're married-"

"What difference will that make?"

Matthew raised his eyebrows and she flushed.

"It'll be a new year," he said, "time for a new start."

She smoothed her skirt. Should she go to the sunroom? She'd noticed an abandoned novel on the seat—

"It wouldn't be a bother?" he asked.

"What?"

"If I moved into your building."

"No, it's a free country." That sounded ungracious.

He didn't seem to notice. Kept staring at his cigarette. "Truth is, though I appreciate their hospitality—"

"It's all a bit much," Alice interjected. "So in love!" She rolled her eyes.

He grinned boyishly.

"I'm not that sort." She didn't know why she said that.

He blinked slowly. "Me either."

"Good." Her gaze darted. "I suppose I'll go back in." She fled.

"Good," he echoed.

Pausing in the sunroom doorway, she told him, "Mr Watkins is the building manager. Drop off your application."

That grin again. "I will."


	19. Under the Night Sky

The stars were gold in the dark sky arching over their new marital bed. Perched on the edge, twisting her nightdress in her nervous fingers, Jean watched the gold flecks flicker in the firelight. Lucien had insisted, "Ladies first for the bathroom," but now it meant she had to wait.

The large bed, special ordered from Melbourne, dominated the cavernous room. Perhaps this move had been a mistake. Everything was so new—

"Hello there." Lucien sidled into the room, his hair damp, and his hands shoved deep in his dressing gown pockets.

Panicking, she thought that even he seemed a stranger. "Hello." She smiled stiffly.

And in that moment, he saw all her concerns. He stuck out his hand. "I'm Lucien Blake. We met before the officiant; I was the groom."

She swatted his arm but leaned into his warmth. He smelled the same, felt the same, it was her Lucien after all.

He pressed his lips to her brow. "You are beautiful—"

He was so kind to say that; it was the last thing she expected to hear at her age. Cupping his cheek, she said, " _You_ are beautiful."

When he protested, she pushed open his gown and ran her hands down his bare chest. "You are so beautiful."

Then found the fresh nick and gave it a poke.

"Ow," he moaned.

Ignoring him, she traced the other fresh scar on his belly. "So beautiful."

LIghtest touch as he lifted her nightdress... uncertain to be naked before him... firelight mottling their skin with shadows...discovering his body with her fingertips rather than gaze... watching the constellations slowly spin behind Lucien's wonder-filled face, bright like a silver moon.

"Beautiful," she promised him one more time before a log broke, and in a shower of sparks, the room plunged into darkness.


	20. Boundless

Jean thrashed out of her dozing nap. "What is it?" she gasped.

Lucien hunched over the cot. "Nothing, love. Go back to sleep."

Flopping back against her pillow, Jean grumbled, "I'm awake now."

"I'll take her to the sunroom so we don't disturb you." He lifted the snuffling bundle.

"Bring her here," she demanded, pushing upright.

Gently, Lucien sat on the edge of the bed and settled their newborn between them.

Jean pulled down her blanket, revealing a tuft of pale hair and outraged blue eyes. Jean may be able to fool besotted Lucien, but not this all-knowing gaze. A baby, possessing the wisdom of the ages, could sense her insecurities. She pressed her trembling lips to Julia's crown.

Julia raised her fists in gurgling fury. Then fell instantly asleep.

During their engagement, Jean had soldiered through the gossip, assuring herself that it would die away once they wed. Only to fall pregnant during their honeymoon, and the chatter started again. Lucien was no help; strutting around beaming. She'd spent six months ignoring whispers while swinging between fear of losing this precious gift and terror of coping with a tiny new soul. A soul...boundless...

She quickly wiped away tears before Lucien could notice.

"Jean?"

"Yes." She smoothed Julia's hair. It popped right back up.

"I may have done something wrong."

She closed her eyes. "What is it?"

"I've arranged for Father Emery to go on holiday."

Confused, she looked up.

"A priest from Melbourne will be covering his duties." Lucien cupped Julia's head. "Like baptisms."

He was alarmed by Jean's flood of tears. "You don't want—"

"I shouldn't. Not after everything. I thought I'd made a clean break. And then here she is."

"So that's yes?"

"Yes." She kissed him in thanks. Julia's name would be besides her sons.


	21. Set Another Place

Jean slipped out of their bed, leaving Lucien sprawled on his tummy, gentle snores signaling his deep sleep. Cocking her head, she listened. At the other end of the house, the kitchen tap's familiar screech and gurgle echoing across the silent house.

She flushed. Not so quiet a quarter hour ago. Last night, as Lucien had deftly removed her nightdress, she'd reminded him that sound carried in this old house, and Matthew's bedroom was just over the hall. First night back from their honeymoon; they weren't in an anonymous hotel room or the ocean liner's stateroom. He'd tried...then he'd caressed her _there,_ her mouth touched _there_... Her cheeks flamed hotter. Perhaps she could suggest that Matthew take over Lucien's old room. More convenient to the phone and front door if he had a call-out, she thought virtuously.

After pulled on her dressing gown, she smoothed Lucien's ruffled hair. Neither that, or the distant kettle whistle, made him even miss a beat in his snores. That sound didn't bother her; it meant he slept well.

Closing the studio door behind her, Jean padded down the hall to the kitchen. She'd have a chat with Matthew right this moment, she decided, squaring her shoulders. They were all adults, after all—

She gave a sharp squeak.

"Good morning," Alice said calmly as she filled two teacups on a tray. She wore what was obviously a man's dressing gown.

"Good morning," Jean gasped.

Alice lifted the tray. "There's plenty of hot water left."

"Thank you," Jean murmured, not sure what else to say.

"Matthew's moved to Lucien's old room." Alice paused in the doorway. "He thought it would be for the best."

"Right."

"Bloody hell!" Lucien was the in hall, clutching his gown over his bare chest.

"Definitely for the best," Jean echoed.


	22. His Place

The perfectly cooked lamb was on his mother's best china. His grandmother's silver flashed as he cut the slices. The linen napkin with which he dabbed his mouth was monogrammed with an elaborate B. It was the most uncomfortable meal that he'd eaten…since the last time he'd sat at this polished mahogany table.

The difference was that his father wasn't across the table, but lay in his bedroom, near death.

Feminine chatter came from the kitchen. He strained to hear but they kept their voices low. The district nurse, a pretty young girl–God, was she even twenty? When had he gotten so old?

Then there was the housekeeper. When Lucien was a boy, the housekeeper was a plump Irish lady, always happy to sneak a biscuit to Master Blake.

This one was younger than him, and she seemed too… attractive. And judgmental.

His knife screeched loudly on the plate. Their voices dropped even lower. His appetite was gone. He rose, and brought his dishes into the kitchen. The two looked up and stopped talking.

"Is there anything else, Doctor Blake?" the housekeeper asked, her gaze wary.

There was still plenty of food on his plate. "May I join you?"


	23. Debut

That night, Jean saw her future. Weeks of hard work on her gown garnered many compliments and turned heads. As she walked down the aisle, Mr Tyneman announcing her name, she knew this would be the first of many dresses she would sew.

Christopher Beazley from down the lane had asked to be her escort. They'd gone on a few double dates before the debutante ball, and as she balanced her gloved hand on his firm forearm, she knew that she'd marry this handsome boy someday,

The blaze of the lights, all the gazes on her, didn't intimidate her as it did the other girls. She decided to join the drama club for the remainder of the school year. She liked the sound of applause, and even more so, playing the role of glamorous woman, not schoolgirl with only one future ahead—farmer's wife.

She'd wanted the night to never end. With another couple, they'd gone to the milk bar, four bright birds fluttering with excitement. The proprietor tossed them out at closing, and they'd continued to play at adulthood, striding down the street arm in arm.

Another party came toward them. The blokes weren't in their fathers' evening dress but their own suits with starched shirt fronts and perfectly pleated bowties. Their dates wore designer gowns from Melbourne, not hand-stitched by the wearers.

Christopher tried to pull Jean aside. She resisted. "Excuse us," she said.

A redheaded woman looked down her nose. "I'll excuse you—this time."

Jean stepped forward. Tonight, she wasn't the farmer's girl who'd give way to Ballarat high society.

It wasn't the redhead who moved over but her escort, a man with a head of gold waves. "Beauty before pride."

Jean flared, but his bright smile held reverence. Shoulders back, she kept walking toward her future.

~end


	24. Bundle of Joy

It was so easy to be caught under the billowing sun-filled curtain which was marriage to Lucien Blake, all soft light, warmth, silken caresses. But today a splash of red; her monthlys again, thank God. The risk had to be addressed.

She found Lucien in the kitchen with his morning newspaper, awaiting his breakfast.

Losing her nerve, she stirred oatmeal on the cooktop. Finally, she asked, "Lucien, how's that new birth control pill going?"

He thought a moment and folded the paper. "There's still resistance from the church— My patients like it. Just pop a pill every day."

"That's good. Please write me a prescription."

"For what?"

"These pills."

"Oh." He ran his thumbnail along the fold of the paper. "I see."

She turned off the fire under the pan. "Surely you can see it's not something that should happen. Our ages, the chance of something being wrong, the disruption to our lives...did I mention our ages?"

"I can't ask you to do anything you don't want to do," he said carefully.

"Is it something you want?"

She saw a flood of conflicting emotions wash over his face. "I suppose... I thought if it happened, it would happen, and we'd deal with it then."

"Oh Lucien," she said, exasperated. Draping her arms over his shoulders, she kissed the top of his head.

"It would be fun?" he suggested, but she heard the question in his voice.

"A baby isn't like a puppy. You can't take it back to the shop if it can't be housebroken."

"You shouldn't take a puppy back to the shop," he said passionately.

She was struck by an idea. "Let's go to the pet shop after the chemist's."

His face lit up. "Can we?"

This time she kissed him on the lips. "Yes we can."


	25. Ball and Chain

"Alice, are you in there?" Jean pressed her ear to the Ladies' door. She detected faint breathing. "Let me in, please."

After a long minute, clacking heels approached and the lock clicked. Jean slowly opened the door.

Alice stood with her back to the doorway, a lit cigarette fiddling in her trembling fingers.

"I didn't know you smoked."

"Calms my nerves."

"i'll have one then."

It was Alice's turn to say, "I didn't know you smoked."

"Just calming my nerves." Jean took a careful puff and immediately coughed. It had been too long. She sat on the toilet and looked Alice over. Her silver satin suit, her smart hat with a high peak and bit of veil, and the white rose bouquet, abandoned in the sink. The next puff came easier. "What happened, Alice?"

"I changed my mind, that's all."

"Usually, when a bride changes her mind, she leaves her groom at the altar. She doesn't run off after the priest declares you man and wife."

Alice cleared her throat. "Wife. Mrs Lawson. I...can't."

"You will still be Dr Harvey."

"It's not just the name, it's being a wife— You wouldn't understand."

"No?"

"You love being a wife."

"I love being Lucien's wife."

"I do love Matthew, but to be a wife—" Alice repeated.

The two women fell into silence, finishing their cigarettes.

"I suppose you could get an annulment—"

Alice shifted her eyes.

"Oh," said Jean. She stood and smoothed her skirt, then took a risk. "You're stuck."

Alice looked around as though seeking escape. Jean held her breath. Then Alice picked up her bouquet. "Guess so."

In the corridor, Matthew had his hands shoved in his pockets. He didn't appear put out. "Right?" he asked, and Alice nodded. This is what it was to be Alice's husband.


	26. Berry Picking

Heat made the sugar rise in the plump blackberries, and Jean pulled them gently free. She carefully placed each berry in the basket, making sure they didn't release their rich juice quite yet.

"Lucien," she said, without turning. She just knew.

"Mmph?"

"Stop eating all these berries. You'll spoil your tea and stain your beard."

He swallowed. "I'm not."

She glanced at him. "And your teeth too."

He still didn't look the least bit guilty. Putting down his basket, he flapped his shirttails and stated the obvious: "Too bloody hot."

"Go for a dip in the creek then."

She shouldn't have challenged him. The shirt came off, and he toed out of his shoes and socks.

"Lucien! What are you doing?"

His trousers dropped. "Taking that dip." Hands on his hips, challenging her to look. "Join me."

Her chin went up. Gaze met gaze. She wouldn't waver. "We don't have our suits."

"We're engaged. We're adults. We can go skinny-dipping."

Her eyes flickered. "Lucien."

His underpants went down; she wouldn't look. But when he dove into the water, there was a moment of a clear, sharp vision—wide shoulders, rippling back muscles, strong bum and thighs flexing.

His teeth flashed as he grinned up at her from the ripping water. "Jean—"

She spun on her heel and his smile faded. But she just ducked behind a thick shrub to disrobe. He'd give her this modesty. Paddling away, he enjoyed the cool current, the exhilaration of nudity, the waters swirled, and then fingers brushed his hair flat.

"You have curly hair?" She was suddenly unsure of this marriage. Did she really know him?

He saw this conflict on her face. Another smile, as he encircled her slippery body with his sturdy arms. "I have all manner of secrets for you to learn."


	27. The Shape of Water

With a kick of her legs, Jean swam behind Lucien, twined her arms around his neck and buried her nose in the short curls at the base of his neck. Her teeth nipped gently at his shoulder, then she lapped water from his skin. He paddled slowly, keeping them afloat.

She sighed and nestled her cheek under his ear, her whisper almost too faint to hear. "I love you, Lucien Blake." She didn't say it often, and it was fitting she did it now like a confessional, where he couldn't see her expression.

"I love you too." He didn't have to reply, but he liked to hear it aloud instead of just in his mind.

Her hands went under arms and around his chest. Her breasts slid against his back and her legs twined with his. His breathing hitched. He would leave this up to her; how far they'd go. She had to feel his thudding pulse under her lips, how he couldn't control the flexing of his hips when her hand moved down his chest and under the water's surface to circle his belly. For one terrifying moment when he couldn't stop the jerk of his pelvis, he wished the water was ice cold.

"Jean-" He was warning her; he was begging her.

Her answer was to slide around to face him. The sky reflected in her eyes and her half smile shone with a promise he had to accept. He lowered his mouth to hers-

"Oi, what's this, Doc!" bellowed a voice from the creekbank.

Jean ducked beneath the surface like a spooked swan, leaving Lucien to his fate. Bill Hobart swaggered on the shore, smirking. A distant splashing told Lucien Jean was safe. Chin up, he rose from the water.

Bill stared at naked Lucien. "Bloody hell."


	28. Careful What You Wish For

"Oh Matthew! You're so witty!" Peels of laughter from the Blake house lounge.

He was not witty, and that was the point to Alice. Plenty of men thought they were clever. Matthew was refreshingly honest. But he was still a man after all, and surely prone to flattery from a lady such as Sharon Gleason, nee Harvey, Alice's sister who'd blown into town after decades away.

Careful what you wish for, Alice thought sourly, slamming teacups down on saucers. Jean's gave her a worried glance as she filled the teapot. Alice had wanted to see her sister again, reconnect after so many years apart. Perhaps find some order to their chaotic childhood.

But Sharon's return had only brought disorder to Alice's life- a life she'd carefully built and cultivated over years. First Sharon has flirted with Lucien, much to his discomfort and Jean's barely contained fury. Getting no purchase there, now she was onto Matthew.

Alice peered into the lounge to see Sharon touching Matthew's arm. "I feel so safe in your presence."

"I need a cigarette," Alice said sharply, heading to the sunroom.

"You smoke?" Jean called after her, but she didn't answer.

The cigarette tasted so good. Then she remembered Sharon was the one who'd taught her how to smoke, and it turned bitter.

"Got another one?"

She hadn't heard Matthew's thumping approach.

"Shouldn't you be with our guest?" she muttered.

"I want to be with you."

She turned and searched his face for any pity. Sharon had always been prettier, brighter, more fun- She only saw that honesty that she prized.

"Yes. Well..." Nor was she a brilliant conversationalist.

"Cigarette?"

They exhaled smoke, enjoying the peace and lovely scent in the room. Then Matthew surprised her for the first time, when he leaned in for a kiss.


	29. Going Home

"Go home, boy." The old man's words were dry and light as falling leaves. The hospital room was white and shades of gray and Thomas's ashen face was melting into the pillow.

Home? The first vision in Lucien's mind was the house on Upper Thomson Road; high walls, garden filled with palms and lush vines, rooms with whisper-quiet servants moving through the shadows, their light steps echoing on the teak floors. Mei Lin waiting in the dining room, her silk dress bright as a hibiscus bloom.

Father meant the house of Lucien's childhood. Lucien didn't know if that was home, but he went there because he had nowhere else to go when visiting hours were over.

At the door, Lucien raised his hand to knock but remembered this was his family home. He didn't need to.

Inside, he was enveloped with the darkness— walnut wainscoting, polished wood floors, dim plaster. He found himself going up the narrow stairs to his old bedroom, but it was gone, replaced by a feminine presence; flowered wallpaper, quilted bedcover, and the scent of roses.

He went back downstairs. The house was quiet but for ticking clocks, all slightly out of tune with each other, reminding him of a stuttering heartbeat.

The slightest sound from outside the kitchen. He moved silently, still not out of practice.

The old sunroom was off the kitchen. In his childhood, it had held his mother's orchids and was a place she could paint during the wet. Lucien would sit with a stack of books, reading.

The sun flared on the glass, blinding him. There was only the deep odors of loam, fresh leaves and lightly sweet blooms. And that rose perfume from his old bedroom.

A shadow moved in the brightness. A low woman's voice: "You've come home then."


	30. Match Point

"That oldie's making a right fool of himself," sneered Jack. He leaned against his mum's snack shack at the seaside, watching the heated volleyball match taking place on the beach.

Jean was busy making sandwiches. She glanced up when the crowd cheered, though. Teams of two men darted after the high-flying ball. Jack referred to a muscular, middle-aged man with a beard and close-shorn head, Lucien Blake, a recently retired military doctor who worked at the free clinic across the waterfront. Glancing at the scoreboard, she said, "Looks like he's leading."

"Need to warm up for my match," Jack grunted and stormed off. His mother knew the doctor had spoken to him about the young pregnant barista from the cafe.

Lucien dove for the ball, sand flying, keeping the point going. His mate, Matthew, spiked it over the net for match point. Lucien got up slowly. Waving off congratulations, he limped to the shack.

"You okay?" Jean handed him a drink.

Clutching his side, Lucien said, "I'm fine."

Rolling her eyes, Jean motioned for him to come inside. "Let me see." Pushing up his sweat-soaked singlet, she probed his ribs.

"Lower," he murmured into her ear as his arms went around her middle.

"How did you injure _that_?"

"Out of shape."

Her laugh trembled.

The salt of his skin, tasty on her tongue. A secret lover, her private pleasure, his smooth back under her fingertips. The bunching of his muscles as she gripped his arse, the heat of his mouth in hers. Head spinning as he lifted her, twined her legs around his waist, his wide palms on her hips, thrusting deep into her softness.

The crowd watching Jack's match roared. "Shhh," he warned. Her triumphant cry, muffled in his neck. Lucien will lose his next game, and doesn't care.


	31. Snug as a Bug

Alice ground gears with grim satisfaction. Matthew had something to say about it. "Oi! Careful!" he bellowed from the backseat.

She took the corner sharply. No good deed goes unpunished. When the Blakes' wedding wound down, Matthew wanted to go to the hotel. But Danny and Rose had taken off in Matthew's car. Matthew insisted they take Rose's Volkswagen. Only to find he couldn't stretch his leg out without knocking the gear shift. He was in the backseat, complaining with every pothole.

"Here we are," she said crisply, pulling up to the kerb.

But getting rid of Matthew was easier said than done. He was wedged into the backseat tighter than a bug in a rug. Or rather, a grump in a Bug. She giggled, an unusual sound that startled both of them. They'd had a bit of champagne.

"Come along." She tugged his arm but he didn't budge. Putting a knee on the seat between his knees, she tried again. Only to fall forward.

"Bloody hell," he moaned as they grappled. Her skirt rode up, his hands seemed everywhere—her thigh, her bum, her waist. Scrambling around only meant her breasts pressed into his face.

He couldn't speak; only whimper. Triumphant, Alice had her balance, but— "Oh dear." Her knee pressed against _something_. Well, she knew what it was, but preferred not to give it a name.

Both found superhuman strength, struggling from the car.

"Right," gasped Alice, straightening her clothes.

"Right," echoed Matthew, turning away.

"Are you hurt?"

"Nothing bedrest won't fix." His pained expression removed any innuendo.

"Yes. Let's get you inside." With shuffling steps, they moved into the hotel. Leaving him facing the wall, Alice fetched his key.

But when she unlocked the door, Matthew noted, "This isn't my room."

She pushed him inside. "It is tonight."


	32. The Way Home

Lucien hated military cemeteries. Even in death, the men were in formation, every bronze marker a grey uniform. The tropical heat and humidity weighed on him, reviving memories best forgotten.

Jean checked the map and strode purposefully down the row, all business. She stopped before a marker, and the orchids she held quivered, belaying her emotions.

"Would you like to be alone?"

She glanced at him with uncertainty. "Do you want to go?"

"I don't have to."

"Stay." She knelt at the grave and carefully cleared the scattered grass clippings. Her fingertips lightly brushed the letters of Christopher's name in a caress. Temporarily forgotten, Lucien felt like a second husband. He stepped back, his head bowed under the relentless sun.

She arranged the vivid white orchids, lush as alabaster skin. He saw her tension dissolving in this ritual. ANZAC Day had passed unmarked in Paris with soft cool rain falling. But next year? Would Jean wear Christopher's medals as usual and attend the Ballarat ceremonies while Lucien stayed home in his dim study?

"Do you want to bring him home?" Lucien asked.

She blinked at the bright sun. "To Ballarat?"

"It can be done." He took her outstretched hand, pulling her up and to him.

She lay her hand on his chest. "What would you have wanted...if you had ended up here?"

Looking around, he said, "This is the fate I expected." That familiar wave of guilt—and shock at surviving.

"You lived," she said with pride.

"Yes, I did." Then his smile faded. He'd promised every dying man that he'd not leave him. They were scattered in cemeteries just like this, or still unfound graves in the jungle. Broken oaths...

"I eventually came home. Let's bring Christopher home too."

Her tear-filled smile showed him this was the right answer.


	33. Perfect Fit

Sweat poured down Lucien's back as he pushed and pushed. He was going to burst! The bed rocked and shimmied. The fire's flames leapt, painting the studio walls red as his thudding blood.

"It's not fitting," he managed to gasp.

Jean moaned in frustration. "It has to! I want this so bad!"

Lucien needed to give Jean anything...everything she wanted. But he just couldn't...give her this...

"I can't...Jean...I can't..."

Her edgy tone demanded, "You must. I know we can do this. Try harder."

He must—

Finding strength he didn't know he had, Lucien squatted deep, sucked in his breath, and with a grunt, lifted the corner of the walnut bedstead. And hit the wall.

"Jean, it's just isn't going to fit here."

Glowering, she stood with her arms folded. "But that's the perfect spot," she whined, "we can lie in bed, watch the fire—"

"We could get a smaller bed?" he suggested, straightening while gripping his spasming back.

Her gaze traveling from the top of his head to his feet. "No... I don't think so," she said, low and sultry.

He spun back around, grabbed the bed, and slammed it tight to the wall. "Perfect fit!"


	34. When the Lights Go Down

It started innocently enough. _Lawrence of Arabia_ was coming to Ballarat. Jean suggested they ask Matthew and Alice to join them for a double date.

"Alice doesn't go to films," Lucien said.

Jean looked at her husband, perplexed. "What?"

He sipped his tea. "She told me she's never been."

"How is that possible?"

He shrugged.

Typical man, Jean thought, even for a curious mind like Lucien's. A woman says something that's flabbergasting, and he just accepts it unquestioningly. But Jean soldiered on, now determined to sort out her friends' romance—or lack of romance.

"Matthew, why don't you ask Alice to join us at the flicks this Friday?"

Matthew showed the whites of his eyes. "Alice?"

Jean had no time for his reticence. "Yes. You've been wanting to ask her. Going with a party won't put any pressure on you."

"Why don't you ask?" he said craftily. "Then there's no pressure at all."

Men! But she saw his point, and made the call.

"Movie?" Alice sounded reluctant.

"Lucien, me and Matthew."

"I see."

Jean could be crafty too. "Please, Alice. It's good for Matthew to get out."

In the theater, the four sat in a stiff, uncomfortable row.

"Sweets?" Lucien asked when the refreshments girl came by.

"Yes, please," Matthew said desperately.

Alice opened her purse. "I'll have mints."

Matthew paid and she protested. They squabbled. Awkwardness came off their exchange in waves so strong, Lucien and Jean leaned away.

The lights dimmed just as Matthew roared, "We're on a date! I'm paying!" All around them, patrons shushed.

In total silence, they watched the film. During the intermission the ladies went to the powder room. Jean dared to ask, "What do you think?"

Alice stared in the mirror as though she doesn't recognize the face. "It's wonderful," she said, sounding surprised.


	35. Made with Love

Matthew ate the lamington with a blissful expression. Bill wolfed down one too. Leaning on his desk, Lucien ate another, his arm wrapped around Jean. "Thank you, love," he said, "This is just what we needed."

Alice picked coconut flakes from her lamington. Working late at the police station and Jean had brought a respite. Truly, it was very kind. Alice turned away as Matthew licked his fingers blissfully. He'd assured her that she was his best girl just the way she was, but insecurity percolated up.

Jean's comment that Alice was a busy woman without time to cook now sounded patronizing when she replayed it in her mind. She was an educated, intelligent woman. She could do this.

* * *

Flour settled on everywhere like fingerprint powder. She boiled the ingredients too high, and an acrid odor hung in the air. The thick batter thudded into the baking tin.

Lucien stated the obvious. "This isn't going well."

Alice had needed Lucien to 'acquire' Jean's recipes. But he wasn't helping. "I think you should have started with something simpler. I could have helped you make scones," he said smugly.

"Fruitcake is Matthew's favorite," Alice said hysterically.

Turned out to cool, the cake didn't seem to have risen properly. A cloying smell of whisky sent her reeling back when she checked it.

Lucien opened his mouth to speak. She pressed her fingers on his lips. "Don't say a word."

* * *

Another late night, this time for paperwork. Matthew rubbed his stiff neck.

Alice appeared in the doorway, basket over her arm.

"Surprise," she said, trembling. His greeting smile gave her courage. She presented her cake.

His reaction was interesting. First curiosity, then uncertainty, then pain.

Her shoulders sagged. "I wanted to make you happy."

He pulled her close. "It's delicious," he said firmly.


	36. Home Cooking

"You'll need this," Jean said briskly as she tied an apron around Alice's waist. Alice felt as though she'd been handcuffed when the strands were made snug behind her back. She remained rooted, glaring at the collection of bowls, jars, and bottles on the kitchen table, as though staring down a firing squad. She had to protest: "You shan't make me into a womanly woman, no matter how hard you try. I'm not going to be someone I'm not, just to get..." She flared her nostrils. "A man."

Jean tossed her head back. She could be outraged too. Then her features softened. She saw the fear in Alice's eyes. She sat down.

"When I first cooked, I just helped out. With mum and aunties, a wee girl, with the smallest apron tied under my armpits, and it still dragged the floor. At first I was only allowed to stir, then chop, but I was always the helper. I married, but cooked for Christopher's tastes, then the boys came along, and children only wanted plain things. After that, Dr Blake preferred simple food. Nearly all my life, I've cooked for others."

Alice raised her eyebrows as if to say: _See?_

Jean's gaze cast over ingredients before them. "And now there's Lucien. He's dined at the finest restaurants in Europe, eaten the exotic cuisines of the Orient, and had to survive on cockroaches. He will eat anything. So now it gives me such pleasure. I'm not doing it as a wife, but for myself. He just gets to come along for the ride." Jean cradled an egg tenderly in her palm. "We'll start with an omelette. Home-cooking, but classic."

Alice was intrigued. The table _did_ look like a laboratory. "I suppose it's worth trying," she said slowly and Jean smirked with satisfaction.


	37. The Proposal

If asked to recount proposing to Jean, Lucien would chuckle and go dreamy-eyed and tell first he'd kissed her, had felt that she returned his most ardent feelings, then invited her to stroll with him in the garden, where they stood before the golden-toothed aloe plant that signified her life before coming to the Blakes, and he'd asked for her hand in marriage. With tears in her eyes, she'd replied, "Yes, oh yes, Lucien," and come into his arms again.

Jean remembered things a bit differently.

"Jean. There's something I have to ask you."

Lucien's expression was that of a boy with a secret, and although she knew what he wanted, she still responded, "Yes, Lucien?"

"Uh...yes...well...would you like to stroll in the garden? It's a beautiful morning."

Stifling a deep sigh of disappointment, Jean took his arm. "Yes, that sounds lovely."

Under her hand, his forearm quivered with pent-up energy. "So...I suppose things will get back to normal..." he stuttered.

"I don't think so," Jean said quietly.

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye like a spooked horse. "No?"

"No." She bent to snip the wasted bloom from a plant with her sharp nails.

"I see," he said in the saddest voice possible. His shoulders drooped.

From her crouch, she looked up at him. His head was wreathed in sunlight. "You'll be my fiance, then my husband."

His adam's apple bobbed. "I will?"

She stood. "Yes. You're going to ask me to marry you."

"Yes I am," he said with wonder. Then fell into silence, just examining her face with his enraptured gaze.

"So..." she prompted.

"Oh! Yes! Will you marry me, Jean?"

"Of course, Lucien," she said with great satisfaction, and pulled his slack arms around her in an embrace.


	38. Coming Ashore

Jean was a pretty good detective herself. The morning mail was on the table by the door with letters tossed down—one on the floor. The letter opener lay by the mail, but no opened envelope.

Her conclusion: Lucien retrieved the mail, and took one piece away with him. No sign of him when she searched the house and garden. The car wasn't gone; where would he go on foot? He'd had appointments until ten, and she's returned from shopping at 10:30; he couldn't have gotten far.

She drove slowly, but not toward downtown. If it was something upsetting, he'd want to be alone.

That's where she found him, on a bench overlooking Lake Wendouree. He had a large envelope in his hands.

She sat beside him. "What is it, Lucien?"

He handed it over. It was from the Victoria Courts. She slid the enclosure out. "Your divorce decree."

"Maybe you shouldn't be here."

"Do you want me to leave?"

"No. But I don't want to upset you."

"Why would you?"

"Because—" He stared across the lake and didn't continue.

"Because you once loved her deeply and passionately. Because she's your daughter's mother. Because she came here to find her husband in love with another woman. She's a strong, proud woman. She wouldn't beg you. You're wondering if divorce was the right thing to do."

His head dipped to his chest. "Jean—"

"What would you have done if I hadn't been in the picture?"

His stricken expression made lay her head on his shoulder and grab his hand tightly. "It's alright, Lucien. Your devotion is why I love you. Forgive yourself."

After long minutes, he pressed his lips to her temple. "Ready to marry me, Jean Beazley?" he whispered.

Her face was the bright sun turned up to his. "Yes."


	39. Ring in the New Year

New Year's at the Colonialists Club was their first public outing since their engagement announcement. Jean found it both exhilarating and exhausting, accepting congratulations and catty remarks, while Lucien was no help at all, offering only a besotted grin.

Home at last to an empty, silent house. Charlie off to detective training; Matthew in Melbourne for the holiday.

"I'll put the kettle on," Jean announced as Lucien hung up their coats.

"First, a proper New Year's kiss." He pulled her into his arms. They'd kissed at the stroke of midnight as all the partygoers watched avidly. This was a very different sort of kiss.

As his strong hands stroked her body, shoulders down to hips, Jean was acutely aware that they were right outside his bedroom. Her legs against his, wanting closer still, to illogically crawl into his lap while standing up, to absorb the heat and pulse that passed between them. She thought of going upstairs, changing into her negligee, but couldn't risk losing her courage again. She took his hand and led him into the bedroom.

"Jean?" Confusion and passion warred in his voice.

Her reply was to hold up her hair from the zip of her dress.

The zip undone, his hands rested on her hips. Kissing along her neck, he nosed her dress off her shoulders. Beard bristles and the soft lips made her sigh. Arms wrapped tight around her waist, he pressed closer, his arousal at the base of her spine. She felt wonderfully fragile and overwhelmed.

But he had doubts. "Jean?"

The next few months would be a whirl for planning and preparing for their wedding. There was no reason to wait, to build up any more expectations and anxiety. This was the right time, with champagne on their tongues and dance tunes coursing through their veins.

Turning his embrace, she let her dress drop. "Yes, Lucien."

Her corset laced up the front. She handed him the strand to pull loose. His grin was joyful. After unhooking the suspenders for her stockings, he slipped her corset off and lowered her to the bed in one skilled maneuver that left her head spinning, her stockings still in place.

Fingertips trailed along her calves, cradling her high-heeled shoes before tossing them aside. He loomed between her knees, still fully dressed. This man made of dark and light excited her; rapid breathing lifting her breasts, flushing her skin, her body blooming for him—

He was on her. Mouths biting and suckling, her hands ripping at his belt and zip, his wide palms raising her hips, bringing her to his thrust. She wrenched loose his tie so she could bite his neck, lap the wound, kiss his thundering pulse. The slide of silk stockings on woollen trousers, pulling him deeper, faster, harder-

Their names mingled in cries, calls in the dark. "I'm here, right here," they reassured each other in the rubble of their tangled limbs, rumpled clothing and crumbled bedding.

A new year; a new life starting.


	40. Chicken Run

Lucien had an uncomfortable flashback of another time that he and Matthew rushed into the police station late at night. They were met by self-righteous Constable McEvoy, Ned's replacement.

"The perpetrators are in the cells, Sirs."

"Come on," growled Matthew.

Two white faces peered between the bars at them.

"Lucien!"

"Matthew!"

"Now what's this?" drawled Matthew.

"Seems that Ballarat's finest has brought in two dangerous criminals," said Lucien with a grin.

Jean's nostrils flared, but Alice was beside herself. "It was perfectly innocent good fun—"

"Isn't what they all say?" Lucien asked Matthew.

"That...constable of yours," sputtered Jean.

"Say, where's Rose?" said Matthew, peering in the cell. "She was to be at this hen night too."

"When your getaway driver hares off, you don't get away," huffed Jean.

Lucien burst out laughing. "They better stay overnight to pay for their crimes."

Alice whimpered. She was not meant for a life of crime. Matthew contemplated.

Jean's hand shot out and snagged Lucien's tie, pulling his ear to her mouth through the bars. Alice couldn't hear all she said, but she caught, "Wedding night...if you want...better...out of here."

Lucien's expression instantly changed. "Open this door, now," he commanded.


	41. Par Avion

_Dear Mattie,_

 _I hope this letter finds you well. I have the very best news—_

Mattie excitedly crinkled the airmail onionskin paper. Finally! The engagement announcement for which she'd waited months.

 _Mei Lin Blake, Lucien's wife, has arrived in Ballarat. She survived the war after all. We are so very happy to have her home at last._

Tears began to prick at Mattie's eyes.

 _I'm sure you'll share my joy that Lucien has been reunited with the love of his life._

In fact, Mattie was flushed with childish anger for Jean.

 _Australia will be a great change for Mei Lin, and I will do all I can to serve my new mistress._

Mattie had to put the letter down momentarily before continuing.

 _I don't yet know if she wishes me to remain in my role, but if not, do not worry. You know I can take care of myself. Once I know more, I shall write again._

 _With all my love, Jean_

Outside Mattie's window, dusk was falling. She remembered a similarly dreary evening, when she'd seen Jean exposed, denying the certain future for the unknown. She'd done it again, and in her words, Mattie saw there was no regret.


	42. If These Walls Could Talk

When she was a girl, Jean loved ghost stories, devouring serials in tattered magazines bought for pennies at the secondhand shop. She lamented that Ballarat, without a Gothic manor to be had, was not a proper setting for such tales.

Then she had to live in a small house made dingy and dark by lack of funds, where she could still smell a dead man when she sat in his favorite chair or opened the wardrobe to pack her belongings. Felt the bite of the aloe's sharp leaves when she took a cutting at the last minute, her taxi driver impatiently pressing his horn.

She entered a house haunted by the past. A boy's bedroom frozen for over thirty years. A sunroom with burnt, leafless stems protruding from salt-crusted pots; a graveyard for a once vibrant endeavor. A door handle untouched for so long that it was covered in dust. Her employer's memories were a gossamer film clinging to everything in his home.

He became the ghost lingering in the rooms when he passed. His son, rather than throwing open the drapes and letting in the sun, arrived with his own dark spirits. Lucien shoved them under his bed, into the back of his desk drawer, even put a piece in her jewel box. She assured that she moved carefully as though in a house of mourning-and perhaps it was.

But change did come slowly, some welcomed like a young man taking over the boy's room, others painful, as when a ghost came to take the seat at Lucien's right at the table. Then one evening while turning off the lamps, and seeing her new engagement ring flashing, did Jean realize the groans of settling wood and hissing window sashes were now familiar voices, and her own comfortable ghost stories.


	43. Full Bloom

As though watching an actress on stage, Jean marveled in her steady voice as she responded to the patient on the phone.

"How does Tuesday sound, Mrs. Heller?"

The woman squawked.

How warm his palms had been, cradling her flushing face-

"I'm afraid that's the soonest appointment we have."

How soft his words had been; a caress against her brow: "It's alright."

But it wasn't alright; it would never be again. Now she knew the strength in his fingers wrapped around her heaving ribs. The tickle of his beard against her temple. How easily her head fit under his chin, settling into a nest of his heated skin and crisp collar. How his sturdy chest took the weight of her shattered sobs.

He called this house her home too, and it seemed so right...and wrong.

"Right, we'll see you Tuesday," Jean said crisply and rang off, ending Mrs Heller's protests.

Outside reception, his shadow slid along the wall to his bedroom. He wasn't a theoretical promise or problem, he was a man of flesh contained in the four walls with her.

Panic overwhelmed her. There was only one thing to do.

"Mattie," she called out, "time to start dinner."


	44. A Door Closes

"It's so wonderful to have you home." Jean's warm embrace was just the welcome Mattie needed.

This was Mattie's home, after all, not the sterile house in Melbourne nor the dreary shared flat in Bloomsbury. Neither place had this smell of strong tea steeping, wood polish, fresh cut flowers, all combining with that undefinable odor of an old family house.

One scent was missing through; Bay Rum, wool suits, and Brylcreem.

Mattie fought back tears. "It's good to be here."

Even after all these years, Jean was the same. Sorrow had always lingered at her smile's edge, The only time Mattie had seen it gone was during their honeymoon visit to London.

Despite the young woman's protests, Jean took Mattie's suitcase. "Let's get your bag upstairs."

"With Matthew in the room you used, you'll have the boys'." When they paused on the landing, Mattie glanced into Jean's old room, wondering why she'd not been put there.

She knew Lucien and Jean had converted the studio, but this bedroom was occupied. Jean's things on the dressing table, her cardigan draped over the chair.

"This way," Jean called, her smile fixed.

That evening, they fell easily into old routines, preparing dinner and easy chatter. Dr Harvey joined them but she and Matthew seemed to talk to each other more than the visitor. When the meal wound down, Mattie dared to say, "It's awfully chilly. Why don't we have our after dinner drinks before the fire in the studio?"

Everyone stilled, breaths held. Then Jean raised her chin. "It's not cold at all. Let's move into the lounge."

Mattie conceded, but when she excused herself to use the washroom, she surreptitiously tried the studio door. It was locked again, holding in happy times for the time when they could be lived once more.


	45. Is This Seat Taken

"What a coincidence to see you here, Joy." When he smiled, Lucien was as handsome as she remembered.

"I'm as surprised as you are," she said smoothly. All it had taken was her source at the Melbourne Docks ringing her when Dr Blake was spotted disembarking a freighter. "How is your daughter?"

His familiar mask slipped into place. "She is well."

"That's wonderful," she said, putting her hand on his arm.

He shifted in his seat and looked out the bus window at the passing scenery. "It'll be good to be back."

"I wondered if you'd miss Ballarat, being gone for so long."

He still gazed out the window. "I didn't miss the small minds. The lack of imagination. The dullness. The dust."

"Sounds like you've given this some thought."

He tugged at his beard. "I missed our home. I missed the smell of the sunroom on a warm day. I missed taking a picnic basket to Wendouree with Jean and the kids. I missed putting on my favourite cardigan after a day in surgery.'' He glanced over and gave her a warm smile. He repeated, "I missed home."

She forced herself to return the smile. "Then welcome home, Lucien."


	46. Under the Shroud

Alice was never lonely, but she was suddenly aware of being alone. As she entered the laboratory, the door's thud echoed like a tomb closing. Her fingertips found his lab coat first in the dimness, and she snatched her hand back like scalded.

Matthew had been complaining about Jack Wallace's incompetence; he had packed away his loss of a friend and focused solely on how cases weren't getting solved.

"If only there was someone I could trust to be police surgeon."

At the head of the table, Jean had choked on her wine.

Alice had moved the peas around her plate, ignoring the power of his gaze.

Her silence had stopped him that time, but he would try again while driving her home after attending the pictures.

"I couldn't take his place." She was well aware of Lucien's fragile genius, and knew she did not possess his creative thought process-yet he'd needed her skills to succeed. They were two sides of a coin. To replace him, must she flip that coin in the air and see if it came up heads or tails? But she was not a gambler.

"It is because of us?" Matthew asked.

"It's because of me," she'd told him, refusing again.

Then a girl's body was found on the shore of Lake Wendouree, and righteous indignation had made it easy to sweep aside her burgeoning attraction to Matthew, her illogical need to honor Lucien by not replacing him, and most of all, Jack Wallace's smug expression.

Now she stood beside the sheet-covered corpse. The steel gurney was cold under her grip. Carefully, she turned back the shroud and looked down at the pale, young face.

With a delicate touch, she smoothed hair from her brow.

"Tell me, child, what happened?"

She was not alone after all.


	47. In a Jam

Sun heated, the blackberries were sweeter than any candy. Jean ate only a few. The berries would be canned with her mother. They'd sell the jars at the harvest fete and finally pay off Doctor Blake's bill. Perhaps there'd be a few pennies for hair ribbons.

Jean headed deeper into the patch, seeking the best fruit by the river. Finally all her little buckets were full, and she balanced them carefully as she wove through the bushes. Her mum would be so happy-

"What do we have here?" A male voice, fluctuating between teen and adult, caused her to pull up short.

She looked up to a smirking plump face framed by the bright sky.

"Hallo," she said with uncertainty.

He answered his own question: "A lot of berries."

She noticed he held two large, empty buckets.

"A good girl shares."

She was a good girl; a good daughter. He was the son of her father's landlord. Slowly, she emptied her buckets into his.

"Blackberry jam?" Serving tea, Jean held up the jar to Patrick.

Smiling ruefully, he shook his head. "You'll never let me forget that."

"I have no idea what you mean," she said, her own smile satisfied.


	48. Homeward Bound

There had been parades of returning soldiers in Ballarat, galas at the Colonists Club. Lucien missed it all. The war was over, but the battle continued and his skills were needed for a different sort of conflict, in his familiar streets of cities stretched across the Orient. The languages became the voices in his dreams, the food the taste of his tongue, the smells swarmed in his sense.

Returning to the land of his birth was to step into a foreign world, with only tattered scraps stuck in his memory. His discomfort was sensed by all who met him, like a new dog brought into the kennel.

"Welcome home." The housekeeper watched him from under her eyelashes, her pale hands clenched together at her waist.

He opened his mouth to protest. She was not welcoming, and this was not his home. But the woman whose greeting would be warm and intimate was surely dead, and his house was a pile of rubble.

"Thank you," he'd said stiffly and she'd tossed her head, obedience replaced by willfulness.

He couldn't say when this truly became home. Perhaps when he needed Jean to return instead of joining her in Adelaide. Or when they walked into the house after kissing in the drive, fingers twined. His war had finally ended at that moment she said yes. The guns fell silent. His search for answers from God, from fate, from authority, ended with her reply. When he said on their wedding day, "I have waited for you for such a long time," surely she knew he meant the people they had become together.

The bush plane began its descent to the Ballarat airfield. The pilot called over his shoulder, "Someone meeting you here?"

"Yeah," Lucien breathed, barely able to speak. "I'll have a proper homecoming."


	49. Once in a Lifetime

"So, Jean, is there a man in your life?" The other women at the table, gathered for the annual state Women's Institute meeting, listened for her reply with interest.

Jean forced a tight smile. She enjoyed seeing Doris Parks but she'd come to dread the regular interrogations. "I'm much too busy for such things."

Was Jean settled in her position with young Doctor Blake? The stories Danny told! She was always welcome to move here to Bendigo…

But once that foray was fended off, Doris returned to the only other option for Jean; to remarry. Jean demurred with vague suggestions that she was terribly busy, the prospects weren't good in Ballarat, who would want a middle-aged widow, only to have Doris segue to the worse familiar topic of all.

"It's just such a tragedy."

Jean hummed and took a sip of tea. Perhaps another friend would come by the table and rescue her…

"You and Christopher were soulmates. All us girls were envious. He was so handsome! Those blue eyes and dark curls!"

"Yes, yes, he was." Jean stumbled on confusedly. "We were."

"You can only expect that sort of thing once in your life," Doris noted. "You should look for someone stable; a good provider."

"Certainly," Jean agreed.

A hush fell over the room and heads turned. A man stood outlined in the doorway by the bright light, then stepped forward.

"Who's that?" Doris asked. His wide shoulders brushed through the crowd, his intense gaze seeking; he spotted Jean. His grin spread his speckled beard and revealed his dimples.

"He's for me," Jean said and stood.

"I was out this way on a house call," Lucien said, "and thought I'd save you a bus ride."

"You have saved me," Jean said with relief and collected her handbag and coat.


	50. Trendsetter

"Wow," said Rose.

"Yes," agreed Alice.

Jean gave them a quelling glare. The ladies had arrived for Christmas luncheon together and had spotted Lucien in the kitchen surgically chopping potatoes for Jean. His wardrobe had stopped the women in their tracks but he hailed them warmly.

Before they could say more, Jean moved him briskly along. "Lucien, play us some Christmas music," she said, giving him a nudge toward the parlor. "And leave the women to cook."

He bumbled off happily, giving them another view of the shocking trousers.

Normally, Alice and Rose would have been offended to be relegated to women's work, but in this case, shame had them tying on aprons and meekly following Jean's directions. But within minutes, Rose was asking, "Where did he—"

Jean peered to the parlor, but Lucien was playing the piano.

"It's my fault," she admitted. "Ever since he was stabbed, I've been nagging him to relax around the house more. Take off his tie after work. Put on some comfy clothes."

"And that's the result?" Alice was appalled.

Rose was shocked. "You allowed him to do his own shopping?"

"He's a grown man," Jean sputtered.

Alice mused, "I've not seen any evidence previous that Lucien is color blind, but..."

Rose said, "They're sort of...lavender? I've never thought his taste was flamboyant—" She stopped herself before she completed that thought.

Distracted, Jean grumbled, "It's not me who'll be getting a trousseau for the honeymoon, it's him," and the glint in her eyes told the women that she wasn't kidding.

Rose caught what she said. "Trousseau?"

But Jean was watching Lucien. Bent over, he was searching for sheet music in the piano seat. "Maybe just a different color," she mused, as the trousers stretched taut across his bum. "The fit looks just fine."


	51. In the Dark

All the lights went out just as Matthew opened the Blake's front door for Alice's departure. They both reached for the switch...they collided.

The most intimate areas of the male form was familiar to Alice and she usually had no reaction except scientific interest. But this wasn't a corpse under her fingertips. "I'm so sorry!"

"Yes, of course," he said, contrite, and his touch disappeared.

He called out, his breath warm on her cheek, "Lucien, have you blown a fuse again?"

"Not me!" Lucien replied, his rich chuckle carrying from the lounge. Jean's laughter joined his, then was suddenly stifled.

Uncomfortable, Matthew and Alice realized what those foolish newlyweds were up to.

Alice peered outside. "The entire neighborhood is dark."

"I don't want you driving in this."

Flaring with anger, she whirled back-

The damn high heels that she'd worn by some unspecified impulse gave way, and she collapsed against him. She was able to catalogue all the details as she grasped for purchase; the hard tendons tying his neck to his shoulders, the firm pectoral muscles, the ripple of his ribcage, the smooth skin where his jumper rode up.

"I'm so very sorry," she murmured, and was mortified to hear her tone as sultry.

Matthew's response was a low rumble. "No worries." His hands were busy as well, sliding down her back, over the swell of her hips, nudging her closer- "Can't have you fall..."

In the stillness of the dark, there was the faint but distinct sounds of kisses and moans from the lounge.

"That's an idea," Matthew suggested in a whisper, his lips against hers-

The lights popped back on, making the foyer bright. Alice's eyes widened in shock-who was this woman, and what was she doing?

"Goodnight," she gasped, and flung herself out the door.


End file.
